


"Sherlock, can I kiss you?"

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Series: Fluff, Smut, and Time, (Everything's Okay) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU-No Reichenbach, Angst, Better Trigger Warning in the Notes, Brief Summary of Explicit Material in the Final Chapter, Don't call Sherlock 'William', Established Relationship, Explicit Material is Skipable without missing Plot, Explicit Material is in it's own Chapter, Insecure Sherlock, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Saint, Loving John, M/M, No Mary!, Not even as bad as Law & Order: SVU, PG-14ish, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Sherlock Loves John, not too bad, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Running through his mind were the memories he tried so hard to delete, memories that still haunted him at night, that still made him hold back when it came to John and others. John so far had been fine with not consummating their relationship; he assumed Sherlock was a virgin, and simply wasn't ready yet. Sherlock didn't bother to correct him</p><p>**Explicit Material can be skipped</p><p>*This story contains a happy ending</p><p>**Please read the tags</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

> Goal: 500 Words
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except my words. *Story had been updated and errors have been fixed.
> 
>  
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Chapter 2 of this fic contains explicit material. Because of this, chapter 2 is skipable, and everything else can be read without reading it. There are no major plot points in the chapter, and you will not miss the story by skipping it.
> 
> THIS MATERIAL CONTAINS: past rape/non-con, past sexual abuse, past physical abuse, past emotional abuse, past psychological abuse, past child abuse, and just about any other kind of abuse you can think of. If I missed any, please let me know in the comments so I can warn future readers.

John sat in his usual pub, foregoing beer in favor of liqueur tonight. He zoned out thinking about the fight he'd just had with Sherlock. John had finally brought up what had been bugging him for a while; Sherlock's lack of want to John's touch. Sherlock, when in the mood, would wrap himself around John; forcing the older man to either carry Sherlock around the flat, or accept his fate and remain stationary. On the other hand, Sherlock would inch away from any touch John tried to initiate. John had simply had enough after being backed away from the simple act of a hug with the detective. He was starting to think that maybe his relationship wasn't what he thought it was, that maybe it was just convenient for Sherlock; someone to take care of him and give everything, while giving nothing in return. Sherlock, being the one lacking in knowledge when it came to emotions, didn't see the cause of John's frustration. When John had yelled nonsense at him before storming off to the pub, meanwhile muttering to himself while walking out the door, Sherlock simply assumed he was mad about the elbows in the lunch meat drawer; and trying to be a better partner, alleviated what he thought was bothering John.

John had been thinking about bringing up the issue for a while, but that Friday evening had been the last straw. After trying to hug Sherlock, just to show him he cared, the man stepped back again. After that, John snapped, and angrily yelled fragments of his thoughts at Sherlock. When stepping closer, the detective flinched and visibly drew himself back further, which only served to anger John more. Grabbing his coat and wallet from the rack and table near the door to the flat, he hurried down the seventeen steps to the street, and walked to the pub he often visited with Greg.

Meanwhile, back at the flat, Sherlock sat on the center of their bed in their room on the main floor. The man sat in his navy-blue dressing gown, drawn tightly around him. His legs were drawn up, knee to chin, and his arms were snaked around them like a child fending off monsters in the dark. Running through his mind were the memories he tried so hard to delete, memories that still haunted him at night. That still made him hold back when it came to John and others. John so far had been fine with not consummating their relationship; he assumed Sherlock was a virgin, and simply wasn't ready yet. Sherlock didn't bother to correct him.

His family knew, but nothing was ever done about it. They're the type of family to turn their heads, but all the while making sure that their reputation wasn't at risk; the Holmes's knew to keep things quiet, and they excelled at it. As Sherlock sits alone in bed, one of his worst memories centers itself in his brain demanding attention, and like a kid and his parents walking by a toy shop, he's dragged in.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think! I'm actually quite lazy, and don't usually go as far into detail with my stories as I did with this one. I hope you enjoyed it, thank you for reading!
> 
> **Chapter 2 contains explicit material and triggers, please feel free to skip it as the story is perfectly understandable without it.
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


	2. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EXPLICIT MATERIAL**  
> This is the last warning I am giving. The following chapter has explicit material, and triggers. Please skip it if you need to, the story still makes sense without it.

It always started with him calling Sherlock into his room for a 'visit'. One of the Holmes's guest rooms at their estate had been converted into a permanent living space for the man. The room had dark, Persian-red walls; and the floors were a deep chestnut-brown hardwood. In the middle of the large room on the wall opposing the door, lay a large king-sized bed with four posts that angled up to form a point, with black, sheer curtains cascading down, forming a canopy that completely hid the dark grey duvet. Against the wall opposite to the bed, was a large black-leather loveseat, resting against the cream-coloured blackout curtains that covered the nearly entire window covered wall. Diagonal to the loveseat, in the corner, was a large armchair that matched the loveseat. A short distance away, a coffee table that was black wood, with a marble top, sat matching the bedside tables. The bookshelves that surrounded the rest of the walls in the room were a black wood of the same sort, and were two meters high. The bedside tables were furnished with lamps; and sometimes, if the man was feeling particularly generous, lubricant.

Sherlock was only seven when it started, but it lasted well until he went away to uni, and occasionally when he was forced to come back and visit. The man, Sherlock's uncle, had a sound-proofed room; something he took full advantage of. The man would start the 'visits' by calling Sherlock to his room, and locking the door behind him. 

"Have a seat, William. You look exhausted."

Sherlock knew better than to talk. Talking only made it worse for himself later. The man would take a seat in the armchair, while Sherlock sat stiffly on the couch. He'd quickly kick his shoes off, and cross his ankles on the coffee table. After a few silent moments, he'd ask,

"Why don't you come sit with me? You look cold."

Sherlock would toe off his shoes and wordlessly move around the table, carefully climbing on the man's lap as he reached the chair. The man would force the boy to straddle him, aligning his erection with Sherlock's lack-of carefully. 

"You're such a pretty boy, William. Just for me aren't you?"

At this point the man's hands would find Sherlock's hips, and in a silent command, Sherlock would begin to move. Not much, just small thrusts, only enough to bring the man to full length.

After a while of this, the man would usually start to get angry,

"William, don't you love me? Why aren't you excited? Doesn't it feel good?"

Standing, he'd lift Sherlock with him, and while he had the opportunity, Sherlock would look over the man's shoulder, his eyes quickly scanning the bedside tables for lubricant out of habit. Praying that he'd see some, but flooded with disappointment when he saw none this particular time. 

After carrying Sherlock over to the bed, he dropped Sherlock down in the center.

"I'm only trying to be nice. You should be excited, you know how good it feels."

After watching Sherlock's slacks remain loose, he'd gowl out a number.

"You have one minute to undress."

Though Sherlock had long learned to undress as fast as he possibly could, this particular time was the shortest amount of time he'd ever been given. Nervousness and fear took control of his senses, and he'd only been able to remove his socks and belt by the time his minute was up.

Tsking at Sherlock's failure, the man stepped forward, and ripped the buttons from Sherlock's shirt like he'd done so many times before. He'd ruined an endless amount of shirts before Sherlock grew fast enough. Moving on to his trousers, the man would open and drop them, taking his pants at the same time. Sherlock, still unstimulated to the man's liking, would disappoint every time. 

At the sight, the man would jerk his hand outward, and tightly grip Sherlock's limp member, painfully tugging back and forth until Sherlock mentally willed his nerves to respond favourably to the contact. Once the man noticed the change, his scowl would turn into a sick smile,

"I knew you loved me, William."

Turning Sherlock around, the man would push him face first onto the center of the bed. The dim lighting filtering through the black canopy cast shadows from the sides as Sherlock's raised skin showed scars from his past 'visits'. Sherlock's uncle would pick up Sherlock's belt, then walk to the bedside table, and pull out a long, thin knife, along with a bottle of whiskey from the small drawer.

Striking him with the belt for a while, the man designed a pattern with the red welts that swelled from Sherlock's pale skin. After moving to straddle Sherlock, the man would pick up his knife in his dominant hand, and the bottle of whiskey in his other. Taking his time, the man carved whatever came to mind on the scarred flesh that lay before him, taking the time to pour whiskey onto each cut, making sure it stung properly before he moved on to cut again. When his patience wore thin, but before moving on to his next task, the man would re-carve his name onto the scars that healed from the last time he'd opened them. Across the top of Sherlock's back, running the length of his shoulder blades, Sherlock had scars deeper than the rest from the repeated opening of the skin. Each scar put together added to each other, until the name 'ROBERT' was formed legibly.

Capping the whiskey, and tossing it aside onto the floor, Robert would move to the side of Sherlock, and make him roll over. Sherlock, who had until them kept silent throughout up until this point, let out a whimper in pain as the alcohol-drenched cuts rubbed against the sheets. 

Straddling Sherlock again, Robert would lean down close to Sherlock's ear and whisper,

"There you are my boy! Are you ready?"

And without further notice, he'd force his way in, moaning at the tight friction, and chuckling at Sherlock's screams.

"Oh, you're pathetic, William! They never hear; and they don't care. I'm the only one who loves you. I'm the only one who could ever love you. You owe me for that."

Still clutching the knife, Robert began to move, thrusting hard and painfully into Sherlock. Tears poured from his eyes as Sherlock cried and screamed in pain. Soon enough, for the first time, Robert decided that Sherlock's back wasn't enough, and began to carve along the contours of muscle on Sherlock's abdomen, deeper than he ever had cut his back.

After some unknown amount of time, and excruciating agony on Sherlock's part, he started to become dizzy from blood loss. 

Nearing his finish, Robert tossed the knife aside, and pressed his hands to Sherlock's chest; rubbing his palms up and down the cuts, moaning at Sherlock's whimpers in pain. 

Finishing with a cry of,

"Yes! William!"

Robert pulled out of Sherlock, smiling at the defeated look on the boy's face, and his drooping eyes. Smiling affectionately, Robert sighed,

"You're so pretty, William."

Leaving Sherlock alone, Robert would leave to take a shower and dress for his night out, meeting friends for dinner usually. 

Fading in and out of consciousness, waiting for the maid to come and patch him up, as was the usual protocol for after, Sherlock's only thoughts were prayers; that maybe this time, he'd just die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter made me wonder how sick and twisted my brain truly is. 
> 
> ...Did you like it?
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


	3. In Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are still broken, and they will be for a while. But when John puts his mind to something, nothing will stop him, and with Sherlock on his side, my god, they're practically superheroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter! It is free of explicit material, the worst you are going to get is a brief summary of the previous chapter (and it's PG-14). Sequel is currently in progress with the promise of fluff (and maybe some smut). 
> 
> Thank you liebling for reading, as always, and for encouraging me when my hand felt ready to fall of (seriously, I wouldn't have made it without you).
> 
> Enjoy :)

After cooling down for a while, and finishing his drink, John paid the bartender and started walking home. In his mind,  John was going through the different ways to convince Sherlock to talk to him; and if he's lucky, sit down to do it. 

Unlocking the front door, John ran into Mrs. Hudson,

     "Oh, my! You're out late dear. Back for the night I hope?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock and I had a small domestic. I'm heading upstairs now."

     "Oh, I'm sorry dear, I didn't mean to keep you. I'm sure you boys will work it out."

"I think so. Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."

     "Goodnight, John."

And with that, John began his climb up the seventeen stairs to their flat; pausing a moment to shed his coat and shoes off at the rack by the door.Scanning the sitting room, John didn't see Sherlock in his immediate line of vision, and assumed the man was in bed. Looking at the clock, John saw just how late it was, and sighed as he moved to the kitchen to make some tea. After the kettle started to boil, John swiftly prepared a mug for each of them and walked back to their bedroom, shutting off the flat lights as he went.

Sitting in the center of their bed, Sherlock was still in his defensive position, though now he was trembling slightly as he was dragged through his memories, one by one; reliving the pain, the fear, and the embarrassment of each one. His breaths were coming in shallow gasps, and he was close to hyperventilating, only moments from losing consciousness. Sherlock's eyes, cool grey at the moment, stared off into the distance, the telltale sign that he was in another world. Seeing the sight, John quickly set down their mugs of tea, all but forgotten at this point, and swiftly set off towards Sherlock, but stopped short of the bed. Running through his mind, John thought about how he could wake the detective, and bring him back without frightening him too much.

After a few minutes of internal debate, John sat down on the side of the bed, leaving plenty of space between him and Sherlock, and placed a hand on the young man's arm. Still in his nightmare, Sherlock leapt to action, hurriedly undressing out of suppressed habit. John was stunned, and had managed to get out of his dressing gown and t shirt before John stopped him with an exclamation of,

"My god! Sherlock, what are these?"

The use of his name, the one he'd used ever since his first had been tainted, is what snapped the detective back to reality.

     "John..." he whispered, his eyes red, and tearful.

Slowly, John reached out a hand and turned Sherlock around so he was facing his back. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat, and his blood boil. White lines of skin were raised in jagged patterns all over. The most prominent scars were aligned to form the name 'ROBERT' across the top length of Sherlock's shoulder blades. At the sight of the name, John's anger regrouped, and multiplied exponentially. 

Putting on a tender face, John turned Sherlock back around, so that he was facing the younger man, and looked to Sherlock's face; trying to make eye contact with him. His attempt failed however when he saw the man's eyes shut tight, keeping all sight out, but doing nothing to stop the few tears that escaped from the corners. 

"Sherlock, look at me." John commanded in a soft, but stern voice.

Reluctantly, Sherlock opened his eyes, and blinked them to clear of the excess fluid that immediately flooded them. The rational part of Sherlock's brain knew that John would never hurt him; but the irrational part, the child in him, was waiting for the pain to strike.

"Can you tell me?"

Meanwhile, in his mind, John was scanning through his memories, wondering how, with everything that's happened between the two, he's never managed to see Sherlock shirtless before.

Sherlock was still pale, with a light tremor that lingered still in his hands, but despite his state, was determined to try for John.

     "They knew. My family... They gave him the sound-proofed room. Logically, to keep it quiet from prying ears; but they really just didn't want to hear me scream..."

Sherlock paused to take a moment and gather his thoughts, all the while, John's hands bunched into fists in the sheets.

     "He'd use the belt first. When I was younger, before I learned...Crying out made it worse. After he got tired of hitting me; he'd grab a knife, and some kind of alcohol."

John made soothing noises as Sherlock stopped to catch his breath, which had gradually sped up as he had been speaking.

     "He would cut me. And after each one he'd pour the alcohol onto it. Then he'd turn me over... It hurt, John. Each time, when I was still young, I'd pray that he'd kill me; so that I could just be free of it. And he'd tell me things during; 'No one loves you William... I'm the only one who will ever love you... Don't you love me? I make you feel so good...' He's the reason I use the name Sherlock. 'William' is too filthy; it reminds me of what I am John. It reminds me of how grateful I should be, that you let me be close to you... I don't know why you put up with me."

Sherlock's eyes lifted from his hands to meet John's. John's anger was replaced by guilt, that he hadn't known; sadness, over what happened; and love that he was here now. John's face softened further and he replied calmly,

"Sherlock, I don't 'put up' with you. I love you; every minute of every day. I love being close to you, and if I were able to, I'd be closer more often. I will  _never_ hurt you, Sherlock. What happened to you is  _not_ your fault; and if you'd like to try, I want to help you past this."

Sherlock had stayed silent through John's monologue, and at the words that had never been spoken, but were freely felt, _"I love you"_ , he cast his gaze down at his hands once more. Looking back up at John, Sherlock saw how true John's words were. The love John had for Sherlock could be seen as well as the sunlight at noon on a clear day. When John saw Sherlock look up at him, he spoke again,

"Sherlock," he said boldly to anchor the man in reality,

"I'm going to hug you now. If at anytime-you don't like something, or you want to stop, I want you to tell me. I want you to say 'Stop'; and we will, no matter what. Alright?"

Hesitantly, the younger man nodded his head, his black curls bouncing as he did so.

John slowly moved towards Sherlock, like one approaches a wounded animal. John gently wrapped his arms around the skinny detective; before carefully placing a hand on his curls, subtly suggesting that Sherlock rest his head on John's shoulder.

After a few moments of Sherlock breathing deeply, with his eyes closed, he cracked them open and moved his arms to sit on the bed to the sides of John; unsure of if he was allowed to touch the soldier. John, noticing the movement, and sensing his uncertainty, lifted the man's arms to wrap around his back, before replacing his arms around the man, who was now mirroring his position. Eventually, John began to move his back towards the headboard, letting go and leaning back while Sherlock stayed still and watched. After settling in and getting comfortable, John held his arms open towards the detective, and patiently waited for Sherlock to move up, wrapping his self around the shorter man, content to just be held awhile. 

While sitting there, John contemplated what had just happened within the past few hours. While this certainly wasn't the first time John had held Sherlock, it was the first time he'd been allowed to  _initiate_ it, and he certainly didn't want it to be the last. He spoke quietly, so as not to disturb the silence that surrounded them too much,

"From now on, before I try to touch you, I'm going to ask you first, alright? You can touch me whenever you like still." 

Sherlock nodded shyly to show his approval, face still buried in the meeting of John's neck and shoulder.

"Sherlock, can I kiss you?"

Sherlock pulled his head back and met John's eyes; the child in him waiting for the ridicule about his weakness and hesitancy, while the adult in him was telling it to be quiet. Sherlock nodded again, and felt his face pale slightly as John brought his hands up to cup his face. His body tensed, waiting for the man to take control, and shove his tongue into his throat, only to slowly relax, when John softly pressed his lips to his own, keeping his touch light.

John noticed Sherlock's body tense at his touch, and watched his eyes slip shut, but was relieved when he relaxed, the tension draining out of him like an elastic band returning to shape. Pulling back after a moment, Sherlock let out a breath he'd been holding, and wrapped his arms around John once more. John happily complied with the unspoken request, tangling himself with the detective once more, before lying back down, taking Sherlock with him. The air was thick, and love filled all the open spaces like the darkness and loneliness that had occupied it previously.

"You are amazing, Sherlock."

"We'll work past this."

Phrases of plans for the future were littered in John's speech, all of them lasting long after Sherlock fell asleep, only stopping when John himself fell asleep, his last words uttered,

"I love you, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ....Feel like leaving me a brief comment? I appreciate your opinions :)
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think, even just a few words helps me a great deal. 
> 
> Thank you!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Skulls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541125) by [yes_but_am_i_a_pretty_lady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yes_but_am_i_a_pretty_lady/pseuds/yes_but_am_i_a_pretty_lady)




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